


Do You Love Me Enough That I Can Be Weak With You

by Katzedecimal



Series: Lean On Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Imagery, Metaphors, Music, Other, Post Season 4, alternative psychology, detailed psychological techniques, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: After the events of TFP, the Holmes brothers aren't coping well.  Extraordinary measures are called for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FroggyBangBang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroggyBangBang/gifts).



_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he strode down the hallway. He paused at the bathroom door, listened for a moment, then pushed it open and stepped in. He ran a glass of water from the faucet then wet a flannel. He flushed the toilet then knelt beside the house's occupant and rubbed his back. Mycroft sat back on his heels, took the flannel and wiped his face with it. Then he took the glass and swished his mouth out, spitting the residue back into the toilet. 

"Did you make a list?" Sherlock asked softly. Mycroft winced and looked away. After a few moments, he shook his head. Sherlock just nodded. Mycroft struggled with his own addiction issues, which had resurfaced after his ordeal at their sister's hands. By the smell of it, he'd consumed _at least_ an entire Black Forest cake in one sitting, then, horrified at himself, had induced himself to vomit it back up. "You can't go on like this," he said quietly, "Greg Lestrade came to me. He's afraid you're developing bulemia and he's right. We need to take care of this." Mycroft stared at a tile on the floor that appeared to be particularly fascinating. "Trying to ice-man your way through this isn't working for you this time. Let me be the big brother for a little while."

That got a reaction. Mycroft glanced up at Sherlock for an instant before sagging in defeat. "What do you suggest?"

"Greg's given me a card..."

Mycroft sneered. " _A therapist?_ " he scoffed, "Really, Sherlock? You? Do you really think they were any more effective for me than they were for you? The clinic was basically the same as rehab, you know."

"I know," Sherlock said, "The one John used to attend was particularly useless. You should have seen the walls." Mycroft frowned. "Greg had similar experiences but he says this one's different. The methods she uses work for him and he thinks they might work for us."

_'Us'_ , Mycroft noted. "And you trust this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I trust Greg," he said simply. And Mycroft agreed, because there was no higher endorsement.

* * * * 

They sat shoulder to shoulder, stiff and defensive, presenting a united front - something the therapist was used to. People were always nervous, uncomfortable with exposing their truths, truths they were unable to share with those close to them. To be expected to share such truths with a stranger was difficult, to say the least. Which is why, she explained, she used methods that didn't require such exposure. But the mind had a marvellous way of talking about things without talking about them - it used metaphors. "We work within the metaphors," she explained, "Some of the questions I'll use may seem to make no sense, but if you keep working within the metaphors, they'll create their own. Sound alright?"

"Sounds like nonsense but at this point, Doctor Taylor, I'm out of options," Mycroft said. 

The woman smiled, unoffended, "And sometimes it may get nonsensical, but just remember: They're your metaphors." Both brothers looked at each other, lifting their eyebrows - couldn't argue with that. "So, are you comfortable where you are? Where would you like to be?"

Mycroft blinked, "...I'm sorry?"

"In the room. Physically. Where would you like to be? Where should you be positioned where you'd feel the most comfortable?"

"Oh, um..." he frowned, baffled, then felt a flash of.. something, deep within... somewhere. "Um, over.. over there, I think?" She gestured invitation and, feeling awkward, he got up to move his chair. He sat down again, still feeling silly. 

"Where would you like me to be?"

"Um... There, I suppose?"

He watched her get up and move her chair to the designated place. It was an awkward positioning but he did immediately feel better. "And Sherlock? Where would you like him to be?"

"Here," he immediately pointed to a place beside him, "But, angled a little, like this." Sherlock moved his chair appropriately. Now the aesthetics of the room were completely overturned but he did feel a little more comfortable. 

"Are you comfortable where you are?" Dr. Taylor asked again. 

"I think... better, yes."

"Sherlock, are you comfortable where you are?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock nodded. 

"Alright." She reached over and passed out some large pieces of paper and some coloured markers, "Now I'd like you to draw a safe symbol. It can be anything and your artistic skill doesn't matter. It's whatever makes you feel safe and returns you to your centre. It might be something from your childhood or a current special interest..." Sherlock immediately began sketching a skull and crossbone. After a moment's thought, he added a bull skull with headphones, then surrounded it all with a big yellow smiley. Mycroft smiled indulgently then turned back to his own blank paper. Which remained frustratingly blank. He stared and stared at it but nothing came to his mind. Dr. Taylor just shrugged and nodded. "And what would you like to have happen?"

_And it begins,_ Sherlock thought. Lestrade had told him about the kinds of questions this therapist would ask. They sounded very reasonable, to him. He listened to Mycroft talk, noting how he had positioned himself in a shadowed corner with draperies, a clear view of the door and window, and no direct line of sight with anyone. He'd placed Sherlock strategically near and facing roughly the same direction, but angled so that he could monitor Mycroft's blind side but also not have a direct line of sight. He saw that the therapist had noted this as well. Mycroft was in MI5 and MI6, such behaviour was expected of him, but now Sherlock wondered what else it spoke of.   
He was drawn out of his thoughts when he heard Mycroft refer to himself as "the Iceman." He turned to look at his brother when the therapist asked, "And when Iceman, what kind of Iceman is that?"

"Emotionless. Cold. Strong. In my line of work, one makes many hard decisions, many decisions of the 'Trolley Problem' variety. One cannot allow sentiment to rule one's mind. To be made of ice is an advantage."

"And when ice, where are ice?"

Mycroft frowned, puzzled. He was about to comment on the improper grammar when he felt his left hand rise to hover near his throat, above his tie. 

Dr. Taylor mimicked the gesture. "And when ice is..." she mimicked the gesture again, "What happens before ice?" Mycroft thought but no words stuck in his throat and his hand flailed uselessly. He shook his head, baffled. "Is there anything more about ice?"

"Ice shatters," Mycroft realized abruptly, "It cracks."

"And what happens just before ice shatters and cracks?"

"It's dropped into water."

"And where did ice come from?" 

But again Mycroft stalled, failing, searching for words that weren't coming. Finally he shook his head, "It makes no sense."

"Just remember, it's your metaphor."

Sherlock's head jerked up, "But it's not, though! It's **Moriarty's** metaphor, **he's** the one who called you 'The Iceman.' Nobody who **knows** you ever called you that."

Mycroft stared at him. "That's true," he said slowly, "Lady Smallwood liked to tell people I was a rock. Lord Montague said I was like an oak." He chuckled a little, "I don't know about that. _You're_ like a willow though."

Into the pause, Dr. Taylor asked, "And he's like a willow, and when he's like a willow, what kind of willow is that?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. In a slow voice, as though admitting a heavy guilt he said, "When the east wind blew, the willow bent with it and survived. The oak just.... toppled over, completely uprooted."

"Is there anything more about oak?"

But once again, Mycroft opened his mouth but no words came. "No, there isn't, because that's **Lord Montague's words** , Mycroft, they're not **your words.** What are **your** words, Mycroft?"

The only sound Mycroft made was a tiny squeak as he tried to speak but couldn't. Sherlock stared at his panicked face and sat back slowly as realization dawned. "No wonder this isn't working," he whispered, "No wonder you couldn't draw." He glanced at Dr. Taylor and saw that she too had worked out what was wrong. 

"Then we'll return to the centre,' she said. They both noticed how Mycroft's eyes flicked immediately towards Sherlock's drawing. She began reciting the things Mycroft had said, repeating his words verbatim as she skipped around the other people's metaphors. "...And when one makes many hard decisions, and when one cannot allow sentiment to rule one's mind, and when what are your words, Mycroft, that's like..... what?"

Mycroft frowned again as he thought. Finally he shook his head in frsutration, "I'm sorry, it's just... there's just background music, there's no..."

"What kind of background music is that?"

Mycroft blew out his breath in exasperation. Then, sheepishly, he sang, " _Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, mata au hi made. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, himitsu wo shiritai._ I don't even know why it's there, I detest chart music." He didn't notice Sherlock frowning.

But the therapist had noticed Sherlock's expression. "What kind of Mr. Roboto is that?"

"It's from a rock opera album from 1983 called _Kilroy Was Here._ I... had a bit of a soft spot for it when I was younger. My parents almost named me Kilroy, you see. Alexander Mycroft Kilroy Holmes, what a disaster that would have been."

"Is there anything more about Kilroy?"

"Kilroy was the hero of the album," Mycroft reminisced, "The song _Mr. Roboto_ , is about him disguising himself as a robot guard in order to escape the prison where he's being held. Quite fanciful but I always rather liked the line, _'My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain IBM.'_ I rather related to that last part, I'm afraid."

"And where did Kilroy come from?"

"My parents, as I said. I've no idea why they liked it or where they came up with it. Possibly those silly 'Kilroy was here' the Americans called those doodles of the fellow peering over the edge of something. We called them Chad, here in England. Heh," Mycroft smiled, still staring into memory, "I always rather liked that _Calvin and Hobbes_ cartoon where he built one of those out of snow to freak out his father. I always thought it would be fun to do but we never got enough snow."

"And whereabouts is Kilroy?"

Mycroft's expression saddened, still staring into the middle distance as he did when he was immersed in remembering. "He was put into a prison for misfits. The 'Majority for Musical Morality', founded by 'Doctor Righteous', put him there. They force his hands to be quiet. They bind his hands and tape his mouth to force him to conform. The prison is staffed by robots and he has to become one of them."

"And the prison is staffed by robots and he has to become one of them, and when he has to become one of them, what happens next?"

"He eviscerates one of the Mr. Roboto guards and uses the shell as a disguise. He has to become one of them in order to escape."

"And he uses the shell as a disguise, and he has to become one of them in order to escape. And then what happens?"

Mycroft's face fell. "He couldn't escape. He got lost."

The therapist made a few notes, then recounted. "And he was put into a prison for misfits, and the Majority for Musical Morality and Doctor Righteous put him there, and they bind his hands and tape his mouth to force him to conform, and the prison is staffed by robots, and he has to become one of them in order to escape, and he couldn't escape and he got lost... And what does Mr. Roboto want to have happen?"

Mycroft's head snapped up. He looked baffled as he thought about it, trying to understand the question. Finally he whispered, "' _I've come to help you with your problems so we can be free._ '"

"And what happens next?"

"He becomes a mask to hide behind."

The therapist made a few more notes, allowing Mycroft to ponder that. Then she asked, "Is there a relationship between Mr. Roboto and Iceman?"

Mycroft turned white and sucked in his breath hard. He held it for minutes before finally exploding out again. "He disappeared," he said finally, clearly distressed about the realisation, "What happened? How did I lose him so badly?" 

"And he disappeared and you lost him so badly, and when you lose him so badly, what do you want to have happen?"

"The ice must go. The ice is wrong," Mycroft said with such adament decisiveness that Sherlock turned to look at him, "Mr. Roboto protects, he doesn't... he doesn't.... The ice couldn't protect, it just shattered and melted and ran down the walls."

"And when ice couldn't protect and just shatters and melts and runs down the walls, what happens next?"

Mycroft stared into the middle distance again, clearly distressed. "Kilroy is in the east wind's prison and he can't escape." Sherlock shot him a look, then his gaze slid away, thoughtful. "He needs Mr. Roboto, but Mr. Roboto's disappeared."

"And he needs Mr. Roboto but Mr. Roboto's disappeared. Where could Mr. Roboto come from?"

Mycroft's head snapped up again and he struggled to answer. He looked at Sherlock and finally shook his head, "I don't know, I... I don't know. I didn't even realise he was gone. I didn't even realise he had been replaced."

"I did," Sherlock whispered. 

Mycroft stared at him in horror. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did."

Mycroft put his face in his hands. "Yes you did," he whispered finally, "And I didn't listen. I thought you were just being... reactionary."

"To be reactionary, one has to be reacting **to** something."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said nothing, but lightly laid his hand on his brother's back. After several long minutes, Mycroft drew a shuddering breath and looked up at Dr. Taylor, "What now?"

She smiled, "What do you want to have happen?"

Mycroft sighed and pushed his hands over his hair. "I need my detachment back. It can't come from the same place, obviously, but I can't function without it. I need to find 'Mr. Roboto' again."

"Good," she said, and drew some notes on a diagram. "There's a lot here to work with and now we have a really good starting point and a good picture of what you want to achieve. We get there three steps at a time."

"Very well. What's the first step?"

She tapped the blank paper, "Finding this."

* * * *

Back at his home, in his kitchen, Mycroft poured tea into two bone china cups and pushed one towards his brother. "Well.... That was...."

Sherlock had to smile, "Yes it was rather, wasn't it."

"Did **any** of that make any sense at all?"

Sherlock stopped with the cup halfway to his lips and stared at Mycroft. "Oh yes. It made a lot of sense. To yourself, which is the most important. But yes, quite a lot of things became very apparent and explained quite a lot of things about you that I've never understood. No, this has been very enlightening, I'm most intrigued." 

Mycroft thought for a few moments before nodding sadly. "I feel like I've gotten the shape about what went wrong, although I don't think I could put it into words. Not words that make sense, anyway." He sipped his tea then glanced up, "Where on earth did Greg find her, anyway?"

"Didn't you know? He found her through Anderson, she's one of his little cadre of fans. I didn't realize that Dr. Genevieve Taylor was the same Jenny Taylor until I saw her, though, but as you pointed out earlier, she's quite trustworthy. What do you think, are you going to continue?"

Mycroft sighed, "I suppose I shall." He glanced briefly at his brother, "Will you... come with me?"

Sherlock answered without hesitation, "Of course. I've never witnessed this particular method before and it'll be fascinating to see the outcome, given it's already yielding spectacular results..."

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, "What exactly did you observe?"

Sherlock put his cup down and faced his brother. "That you are made up of other people's impositions," he said softly, not hiding his concern, "That your sense of self has been eroded. Your 'oak tree' was uprooted because there's no ground, no foundation. You used other people's words because that's all you had. You couldn't define yourself." Mycroft digested this in silence. After a few moments, Sherlock went on. "Not until Kilroy. But I know the story of Kilroy, it's one of John's favourite songs. I've seen the video. What happened in the prison, none of that happens to Kilroy, and yet you described it so precisely. Which means it happened to you." Mycroft stared down into his cup. Sherlock picked up his own cup again and leaned back in his chair. "They bind your hands and tape your mouth shut and force you to conform, you have to become a robot to escape. You can't define yourself, you have no sense of self and no sense of safety. That's why your paper was blank, that's why you kept looking at mine. There's nothing in _your_ mind palace that can calm you down. I always wondered why you tried so hard to blend in, you even matched your tie and pocket square to your surroundings. Now I know."

Mycroft was silent for several minutes, letting his tea cool. "How are you doing it?" he whispered, "How are you coping with it all?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged up his sleeve, "Oh yes, **this** is coping. I said 'us', didn't I?"

"You certainly appear to be handling it all rather well."

"Acting."

"Oh."

* * * *

_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he strode down the hallway. He paused at the bathroom door, listened for a moment, then pushed it open and stepped in. He ran a glass of water from the faucet then wet a flannel. He flushed the toilet then knelt beside his brother and rubbed his back. Mycroft sat back on his heels, took the flannel and wiped his face with it. Then he took the glass and swished his mouth out, spitting the residue back into the toilet. His face was wet.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock asked softly.

Mycroft nodded, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Sherlock just shrugged and waited. "Kilroy never escaped from Mr. Roboto," Mycroft whispered finally, "He tried to become him. But he couldn't."

Sherlock refilled the glass. "You realized you're not what you thought you were. What you tried to be. I went through it too. John went through it recently." 

"What did you do?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Trying to reclaim that illusion wasn't working, so... trying to build again incorporating the realized information."

"And how are you doing that?"

"Not very well. That's why I asked Greg if he knew of anything different." 

"Oh."

Sherlock rubbed his brother's shoulder again then patted it, "Come on. Let's go watch _Yo Gabba Gabba_."

Mycroft curled his lip, "Why?"

"Rosie loves it. If you prefer, we could watch _Hattytown Tales_ on Youtube or something."

Mycroft stared at him suspiciously, "Why this sudden interest in children's television?"

"I didn't know you when you were small," Sherlock replied reasonably, "I've no idea what shows or books you liked the most or what interests you had."

"So?"

"There's still nothing on your paper."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't about being right. It's about never being allowed to be wrong.

The paper was blank. Mycroft stared at it, willing something, _anything_ , to surface to fill it, but his mind - like the paper - remained frustratingly blank. Sherlock had sketched out his skull and crossbones, bull skull, and smiley, and had flipped them over so that only he could see them. Mycroft felt irrationally deprived. 

Dr. Taylor watched in silence. Finally, she spoke, asking her eternal question, "What would you like to have happen?"

"I need my stability back," Mycroft replied, "I need my objectivity. Sherlock appears to be handling it all just fine, though he assures me he's just acting."

"Yu-p," Sherlock said, popping the P. 

"And yet I'm pretty certain he's not."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I've applied myself to a problem, that's all. You know how my mind works."

Dr. Taylor tipped her head and smiled at him, "And how does your mind work?"

"My mind,” he said, “Rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my element. Without them and it's like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it's not connected up to anything that can consume its energy." He ignored Mycroft's eye-roll. 

"And it tears itself to pieces because it's not connected up," Dr. Taylor continued in her sing-song delivery, "And when it tears itself to pieces, what kind of tears itself to pieces is that?"

Sherlock drew a long breath and held it for a moment. He really wasn't the sort to talk about this sort of thing openly but... he glanced at Mycroft's blank paper and exhaled sharply. "All my mistakes. Everything I've gotten wrong. Every time I've been 'a bit not good.' Or a lot not-good."

"And a bit not good or a lot not good, and your mind is like an engine, and tearing itself to pieces, and when tearing itself to pieces, what would you like to have happen?"

"I want it to stop.'

"And can stop happen?"

Sherlock nodded, "Two methods, either I am provided with another problem to focus on, or I take a stimulant." He glanced briefly at his wrist, where his shirt cuff had pulled up to reveal the fading needle tracks. 

Dr. Taylor just nodded, making a note on her pad. "A problem?"

Sherlock tipped his head towards his brother. "He really does need his stability back," he said softly, "A lot depends on it. It's not just personal. There's a lot at stake."

"And you want your stability back, and what kind of stability is that stability? That's stability like... what?"

Mycroft considered. Not like a rock, not like an oak, but nothing else was coming to mind. What was it his little brother had said about incorporating the revealed information? That his inner fortitude wasn't nearly as uncompromising as he'd expected himself to be. "A ship," he said slowly, "Able to meet the waves and ride with the changing conditions."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "Oh, good! That's good!"

The therapist smiled, "And what kind of ship is that ship that is able to meet the waves and ride with the changing conditions?"

"A strong ship. A steam ship, driven by powerful engines," Mycroft said, gaining confidence. He glanced at his brother and quipped, "Not like the Titanic though."

"No, no certainly not, that was shoddily made."

"And it struck out on an ice..........." Mycroft trailed off, suddenly pale. He stared at Sherlock, abruptly hyperventilating.

Sherlock stared at him, confused for a moment. Then he reached out cautiously and carefully put his arms around Mycroft. "It's alright, I've got you," he said gently, "I went through it too. It's hard, I know."

"Take all the time you need," Dr. Taylor said. 

Sherlock smiled at her. "He's realizing something important about himself, one of those... things that shakes the bedrock of one's self beliefs." She nodded. "I recognise it from when I went through something similar. Once I could no longer deny it, I had to find a way to incorporate that knowledge."

"And did you?"

"Yes, I think so, I hope so, anyways. I don't think I could have weathered this if I hadn't. I used to think I was immune to the storms, I denied they were even happening. Now I feel more like I'm sort of riding on them."

"And when you're riding on the storms, that's riding like... what?"

"I suppose, like a galleon, running before the wind - _OH_ that gives me an idea for how to deal with her, _brilliant_ , you're really very good at this."

She smiled, "I just ask the questions, you provide the metaphors. You have a very rich and solid internal landscape."

Sherlock tipped his chin at Mycroft, "He's the one who taught me, which is why I'm so surprised. I used to think he was so put together, turns out he's put together of bits of other people. He's like one of those crabs that mooches bits of things to stick onto its shell to camoflage itself. And I tried to be like him, not knowing that. It's no wonder we're both messed up. Now our shells have been smashed and we've lost our protections, we have to rebuild and we have to find the strength."

"And where are strength?"

Sherlock blew out a breath, unconsciously starting to rock his brother gently. "I used to find strength in solving cases. In being right. But when I was _wrong_.... It'd tear me apart."

"And when it'd tear you apart, what kind of tear you apart is that?"

"Being right is the foundation of me, it's my bedrock, so to tear it apart, it's like tearing apart bedrock."

"And it's like tearing apart bedrock, and when bedrock tears apart, what happens next?"

"Magma wells up through the rift and _OH!_ It makes new land, new rock. And it boils the ocean and creates currents and the galleon can run on the _currents._ " Sherlock stared into the middle distance. 

"And when you're wrong, it'd tear you apart like bedrock, and magma wells up through the rift, and it makes new land, and it boils the ocean and creates currents and the galleon can run on the currents... And whereabouts is that magma that wells up?"

Sherlock looked baffled for a moment. Then his eyes fell onto his own paper. After another second, he grinned widely, "Of course! Stupid, obvious! Ridiculous! Yes, that works, why does it work? It makes no sense but it works. Yes, that works." 

"And when it works, what do you want to have happen?"

"I want to be the galleon. I want to be able to ride the waves so they don't overwhelm me so much."

"And can be the galleon and ride the waves happen?"

"I hope so, that's what I'm paying you for."

Dr. Taylor grinned, unoffended, "Then we'll work out a path to get there."

Sherlock grinned back then looked at Mycroft, who was staring at him, "How are you doing?"

"I could use a cup of tea."

Dr. Taylor smiled at him, "Would you like to make it?"

"Yes please."

"It's back there."

"Thank you."

Sherlock watched him go then turned anxious eyes back to Dr. Taylor, "Is he going to be alright? I mean, his paper is still blank."

She nodded, "He's not entirely without a ground, though. He does have something who grounds him and helps bring him back to centre."

Sherlock glanced at his brother's back and steepled his fingers, "That's what I'm afraid of."

Mycroft returned with two cups and handed one to Sherlock. He sipped his tea in silence for several moments. Finally he asked, "Can we stop by Paddington Station on the way home?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> incorporates a direct quote from ACD, ayup.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all need somebody to lean on. Sometimes literally.

_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he strode down the hallway. He paused at the bathroom door, listened for a moment, then pushed it open and stepped in. He ran a glass of water from the faucet then wet a flannel. He flushed the toilet then knelt beside the house's occupant and rubbed his back. Mycroft sat back on his heels, took the flannel and wiped his face with it. Then he took the glass and swished his mouth out, spitting the residue back into the toilet. 

"It won't stop," he gasped out before Sherlock could say anything. 

"The nightmares?"

Mycroft nodded, "Not just nightmares now. Every time, and I can't stop it. I can't stop it." He felt Sherlock nod. "I used to have better self-control than this."

"I know," Sherlock said simply.

Mycroft wiped his face again and focused on him, "Did you... get this too?"

"All the time."

"How did you deal with it?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, "What makes you think it's ended?"

Mycroft looked away then got up and went to the kitchen. He made ginger tea in silence and when he passed a mug to his brother, he noticed that Sherlock had retrieved the new Paddington Bear plushie from Mycroft's bedroom. "Thank you," he said quietly as he took it, looking embarrassed. "I wasn't allowed to have mine very often."

Sherlock frowned, puzzled, "Why not?"

Mycroft curled his lip and said no more. He sipped his tea in silence for a few minutes. "How is the progress on 221?"

"They've got the structure rebuilt and brought up to code. The drylining will begin soon. Mrs. Hudson's been talking to me about redecorating."

"And will you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I don't want to. I want to put it back the way it was. It seems integral somehow."

"Yes, what **did** happen during that session? You were going on about magma and then you just... _clicked._ "

Sherlock shook his head, "I - I have no idea, I have no explanation for it, it just - suddenly it just **worked,** suddenly I just had this sense of having footing again. _You're_ making progress, though."

Mycroft shook the little plush bear with a sceptical eyebrow, "You call **this** 'progress'?"

Sherlock sipped his tea, "You can't heal an abscess without draining the infection first." Mycroft looked down. "You've recognised how far you were already compromised. You're gradually reclaiming your centre. And you're being defiant." He gestured at the bear in Mycroft's lap. 

Mycroft looked down at it then sipped his tea. And hugged the bear. 

"Thank you for the help with Molly."

Mycroft flexed an eyebrow and nodded, "It seemed prudent to be certain. Do you think she will be able to forgive you?"

"She already has. although actually seeing it did help. It opened other issues, though - John had followed."

"Oh. Oh dear."

* * * *

"And the... memories, they keep coming in waves. They keep crashing over me and overwhelming me."

"And when memories keep coming in waves and they keep crashing over you and overwhelming you, what happens next?"

Mycroft stared but this time his unfocused eyes were tracking back and forth, following a light that zipped along. They had both heard of this technique, one which was popular with military veterans. He felt himself rocking and stopped, hugging his bear instead. "I want it to stop but I know it won't. I wish I could.. get above them somehow."

"That's get above them like... what?"

"Like seaweed gets pushed up the beach by the tide. Eventually it gets pushed high enough that the waves can't touch it anymore."

"And when memories keep coming in waves, they keep crashing over you and overwhelming you, and you want to get above them, like seaweed that gets pushed up the beach by the tide, and seaweed that's high enough that the waves can't touch it anymore," Dr. Taylor's voice lilted, "And does anything need to happen for tide to push the seaweed up the beach?"

Mycroft was quiet for a long time, watching the light track. "The waves are part of the tide. In order to be carried, it has to be carried on the waves. I suppose the seaweed just has to accept the fact that the waves are going to come no matter what, and just... stop resisting. Wait until it's pushed up." He fell silent and was quiet for a long time. Finally he looked up and indicated the light, "This does seem to help."

"I'll send you some links," Dr. Taylor smiled, "If they help, it'll be a good basis for developing a plan to get you to that outcome."

Mycroft blinked a few times, sitting up a little straighter, "Alright."

"Can I try it too?" Sherlock said suddenly, "He's right, it does seem to help."

"Of course," Dr. Taylor said and spent the next while teaching them how to use the functions, then developing a plan with Mycroft. 

* * * *

_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he strode down the hallway. He paused at the bedroom door, listened for a moment, then pushed it open and stepped in. 

Mycroft lay on his side, his face illuminated by the glow of his tablet computer. His eyes tracked rhythmically, following the animated light's journey across the screen. The bed creaked and dipped as Sherlock sat down beside him and he looked over, "Can't sleep?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Knew you were awake."

Mycroft turned and struggled to sit up a bit, turning the screen to share it with his brother. "It seems ridiculous. I've heard it called hogwash."

Sherlock didn't look away from the screen. He shrugged again, "It helps, a bit. Nothing else has. It helps you."

"I haven't thrown up," Mycroft conceded. 

"And several times now you've gotten through your own metaphors. And I must say, you're developing an impressive set of traps."

Mycroft actually chuckled. "Yes, I do rather like the little workouts she uses to finish her sessions. I might have to get one of those weights, they do seem very convenient." Sherlock hadn't looked away from the light, his eyes tracking its motions. "You said it helps you?"

Sherlock nodded, not looking away, "Not enough but... enough. If that makes any sense."

"It doesn't but I know what you mean," Mycroft nodded. He skootched closer to Sherlock until their shoulders were pressed together. They stayed that way, leaning on each other, watching the video, until they both fell back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard.

_"You were upset. So you told yourself a better story."_  
Sherlock snapped awake, gasping for air. He lay back, trying to catch his breath, feeling the desperate craving.   
_"Let me be the big brother for a little while."_ Damn. He rolled his eyes and groaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair and down his face, feeling his palms scrape over rough stubble. If he was going to be the big brother, he had to put on the big brother trousers and deal with this. 

He threw off the blankets and got up, absently wondering if he could get a big brother kilt instead. It fit his mood better.

* * * *

"Redbeard."

"And what kind of Redbeard is that Redbeard?"

Sherlock stared fixedly out of the window. "A dog," he sighed at last, "Only, not a dog. He was a story I created to counter another event."

"A metaphor?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, a... a metaphor. For something else. But then the metaphor became all I remembered. The metaphor became memory and it became all I knew." His hands flexed anxiously. "I remembered a dog who never existed and forgot a person, **two** people who did. Now I can't trust my own memory. How can I work if I can't trust my own mind?"

Doctor Taylor was thoughtful for a long time. "And Redbeard is a dog but not a dog, he was a story, a metaphor... And what did Redbeard want to have happen?"

Sherlock pressed his hands together against his lips and closed his eyes. He could picture Redbeard _so clearly,_ the Irish Setter bounding merrily across the lawn. He could hear the panting breath, smell and feel the russet fur. "To protect me," he said quietly, "To protect me from the truth so that I could grow up. But he couldn't protect me from myself. The truth was still there but buried, hurting me but I didn't know why."

Again the therapist was silent. Finally she said, "And he wanted to protect you from the truth so that you could grow up, and the truth was still buried, and the metaphor became memory, and now you can't trust your own memory. And when you can't trust your own memory, that's like..... what?"

"I rely on my memory. I rely on my mind palace. It has to be firm and stable, reliable. Now it's like the whole thing is just a house of cards. I can't trust it. How can I know if what I remember is even real?" He opened his eyes and stared down at the skull and crossbones, nestled within the bull skull with headphones, the whole surrounded by a yellow smiley. "The east wind blew the whole house of cards apart."

"And when the east wind blew the whole house of cards apart, what would you like to have happen?" Sherlock was silent for a long time, staring out of the window. "Sherlock...? Try looking at the light." 

He glanced at Dr. Taylor and noticed that she had turned on the tracking light machine. His eyes caught it instantly and he let himself follow the path, letting it draw him into more of a limbo feeling. "I need to rebuild it somehow," he said quietly. He let his eyes flick back and forth, following the light's trail, as he pondered the problem. Then an image flashed to mind and he groaned. "Of course, stupid, obvious... it's a house of cards - memory cards. I can swap out the memory cards." He wiped his hand down his face, "I can't - I can't know which memories are false, I can only swap them out when I do find one. Idiot. That... that works. **Why** does that work?"

Dr. Taylor spread her hands. "We're working with the language of the subconscious mind and it's the subconscious mind that's responsible for memory. My hypothesis is that the subconscious mind doesn't recognise the passage of time, all time is Now to it. So when we get stuck in a memory..."

"It's reliving it as Now," Sherlock nodded and looked at Mycroft, "That explains why you get so deeply mired when you're remembering."

"It's like I'm there, all over again," Mycroft agreed, "Everything is just as fresh, all the sensory input. I've always said that."

Doctor Taylor nodded, "My hypothesis is that the reason the light and the tapping work is because they force the subconscious mind to stay present, and impress upon that **this** is Now and the memories are in the past."

"It's as good an explanation as any," Mycroft shrugged. 

"So why does the metaphor language work?" Sherlock wanted to know. 

"You both have extremely rich internal landscapes. Metaphor is how the subconscious mind communicates that landscape. Metaphor can be very powerful," she looked at Sherlock, "A metaphor was strong enough to allow you to grow up." He looked at his skull and bones drawing and frowned thoughtfully. "Now, it's created another metaphor that can help you move forward. It may need to be supported, but it can get you there."

* * * *

_"A metaphor was strong enough to allow you to grow up."_

Sherlock looked up at the stars, what were visible of them in the London light pollution, and took a drag off his cigarette. The Redbeard thing was really bothering him. To have buried a memory that deeply, to have rewritten it so completely... 

_"I got it wrong. You weren't laughing, you were screaming."_ He wondered what else he might have suffered at the hands of the sister he'd forced himself to forget. What else was driving him that he didn't know about? 

He noticed the aroma of a second cigarette and turned around to see Mycroft approaching, his coat draped over his dressing gown and slippers. "It's colder than it feels at first."

"Yes. I thought it might be beneficial," Mycroft took a long drag off his cigarette and looked at it. "What I wouldn't give for a cupcake right now. A large one."

"Mm," Sherlock said, craving rather more than a cupcake. 

Mycroft took another drag off his cigarette and didn't look up. "I feel I must apologise," he said at last. 

Sherlock glanced at him, "For what?"

"I did what I thought was for the best," he admitted, "But it's turned out to be... very limited."

Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye. In retrospect, quite a lot of what he had suffered - now and in his teens - could be traced back to Mycroft, his overconfidence and concrete certainty. Would his life have been different if Mycroft hadn't allowed him to erase his own memories? If Mycroft hadn't lied? And the worst part was, he didn't know, he **couldn't** know. "I used to think you were clever."

"...Apparently not."

Sherlock gazed up at the sky and exhaled twin streams of smoke into the cold air. But ultimately, that was unproductive thinking. He couldn't change the past, and Mycroft had always done what he'd thought was the right thing to do. And as Mycroft had said before, he just wasn't very good at humans. "You did your best."

"It wasn't good enough."

"That's the story of my life." He took another deep drag off the cigarette. "I accept your apology," he said finally, and heard Mycroft sigh. They stood together, smoking and watching the stars, until it grew too cold to stay out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft breaks. Nice job breaking him, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumping up the warnings for eating disorders, drug use, ablism, and therapeutic abuse.

_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he lay awake in the half-light before dawn. Sherlock had thought he was out of earshot but Mycroft had heard every word. He wasn't wrong, that was the worst part. And it hurt, to have failed so badly in front of his brother. 

"Did you think I'd think less of you?" Bugger. And he was doing that mind-reading trick thing of his again. "Did you think I'd scorn you? Denigrate you because you retched at the sight of a man blowing his own brains out? Someone you knew? Call you names because you bent under profound psychological torture by someone you **knew** knew how to break you?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock..."

"I said you weren't as strong as you thought you were. That doesn't mean that I thought you were weak."

They were pressed back to back and Mycroft let himself lean against the warm solidity of Sherlock's spine. "When you were little, you used to climb into my bed after you'd had a nightmare."

"Now I climb into your bed because _you've_ had a nightmare," Sherlock replied. 

"I'm pretty sure this is not normal behaviour for adult brothers."

"I'm pretty sure I don't give a damn."

"That sounds about right." They fell silent for a long time. Finally Mycroft whispered, "In Serbia, I had to watch you being beaten and deprived of sleep. I thought... I should have been able to handle this."

"Serbia was predictable. This wasn't. Well... not as much so. I had a pretty good idea of some of the things she was going to make us do but she did take me by surprise a few times."

"All the same, I've had to order operations..."

"And how many have you had to carry out yourself? How many times have you had to watch the people fall? It's **different,** Mycroft."

"You didn't even flinch."

Sherlock rolled up onto his elbow and stared down at his brother, "For God's sake, Mycroft, I've been attending violent crime scenes for how long now? And I've been viewing crime scene photographs since I was ten! But actually **seeing** Moriarty blow his own head off was **different** and I'm _still_ having nightmares about it." He flopped back into the pillows. "It wasn't the first time for me. Repeated exposure plus I knew it was coming. I was able to prepare myself. You weren't."

Mycroft fell silent again. Then, "Tea?"

"Yes."

* * * *

"Why do you suppose she's never asked about 'the east wind'? We've both used that phrase and yet she's never asked about it."

Sherlock grinned, "I know and you can tell she's itching to."

"But still she hasn't. Why?"

Sherlock swallowed his tea thoughtfully. "I think because it's in the past. I've noticed she doesn't ask more than three or four questions about the past and they're almost always about the effect on us. Like, she focused on my house of cards that blew apart, rather than on the east wind that blew it down."

"Hm. And then she moves back to the present."

"And then into the future, 'what would we like to have happen?' I think it's because it's in the past, it's an event that can't be changed, and by not asking about it, she keeps us from getting mired in it again."

"That makes sense," Mycroft conceded, cutting into his egg, "Not that any of this makes much sense. That tapping thing, for instance."

Sherlock dipped a toast finger into his egg, breaking the yolk. "I feel utterly stupid doing it and the words seem ridiculous but I must admit, it is helping."

"Is it? I'm afraid it's not working for me. And you're right about feeling ridiculous. I suspect that's the problem."

Sherlock gazed at him shrewdly and swallowed his toast. "I suspect it's not."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, not looking up from his plate.

"What does 'quiet hands' mean?" Mycroft's fork clattered to the table and bounced onto the floor. "You mentioned it during the Kilroy story. Then Doctor Taylor had you prepare yourself with the light and then she said it and you flinched. She said she could tell by the way you were dressed and that's when I noticed, you always dress to match the room. Even yesterday, your shirt matched the walls and your tie and pocket square matched the chairs. Back that Christmas, your tie and pocket square matched the colour of Mummy and Daddy's house. Even at Buckingham Palace, your clothes matched the settee. You dress to match your surroundings. You dress to blend in but to an extreme."

"So?" Mycroft growled, not looking up. 

"So then I started noticing other things. John pointed it out the first time, you don't move anywhere else but you move when you're at 221B. You start to sway and shift your weight and fidget. But you don't do that anywhere else, not even at Diogenes. Not even here. You're more relaxed in my home than you are in your own. You start to rock in Doctor Taylor's office then you catch yourself and clench up."

"Is there a point to this?" Mycroft's voice could have grated parmesan.

"I think it's the words that go with the tapping. 'I deeply and completely accept myself.' Only you don't, do you? You can't." Mycroft was completely silent, pushing his food around his plate with his toast. "I already know, I looked it up," Sherlock continued gently, "I must say, I'm appalled that Mummy and Daddy allowed that to happen."

Mycroft sighed deeply and pushed his plate away, "They didn't know. Mummy put a stop to it when she found out what they were doing."

"What did they think they were doing?"

Mycroft scrubbed his hands through his hair then down his face. "I didn't talk until I was four and a half. I needed therapy."

"They call _that_ 'therapy?' It sounded more like child abuse. It's certainly traumatised you."

"...Indeed." Abruptly Mycroft stood up and reached for his coat, "I'm going for a walk. I do **not** want company." Sherlock watched him go, silent.

* * * * 

_Mycroft - make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is._ The words echoed in his head as he strode down the hallway and into the den. No, no he really wasn't. But Sherlock needn't know just how not-strong he really was. And he wouldn't find out - he'd made sure of that. Sherlock was sound asleep (finally!) and this den was in a little-used part of the house. He opened the dumbwaiter panel in the wall and slid out the tray of cakes he'd bought and hidden earlier. He set the tray down on the low table and went to pour himself a glass of port. And nearly spilled it all over himself when he turned around again to see Sherlock sitting at the table. 

He withdrew a leather case from his dressing gown and set it down. Mycroft stared at it. "If we're going to do this, we do it together," Sherlock said quietly, "We're both suffering."

Mycroft stared at the case and Sherlock in growing discomfort. Then he set the port down and his mouth drew into a tight line. "Fine," he said, and sat down. 

He withdrew the first cake and peeled the paper off of it while Sherlock withdrew a syringe from the case and filled it with a pre-mixed solution, watching as Sherlock calmly tied the tourniquet around his arm. They clinked cake and syringe together like wine glasses and Mycroft sipped the port while Sherlock rubbed up the vein. Then he smashed the cake and, screaming, swept everything off the table, the port glass shattering, the syringe skittering across the floor and rolling against the wainscotting. He fell to his knees, sobbing brokenly, and felt Sherlock's arms slide around him. 

"It's alright, I've got you," Sherlock whispered, "You're so used to being right, you don't know how to deal with it when you're wrong. That's why this has been so much harder for you than Serbia. You messed up and it had terrible consequences you couldn't foresee. All of it was happening because of a mistake you made and you couldn't stop any of it. I know, I've done it too."

"It's not allowed," Mycroft's words were garbled by the force of his sobs, "I'm not **allowed** to be wrong." He looked at Sherlock pleadingly, "You heard Mummy!"

"I did," Sherlock nodded, "And I heard you. And the teachers. You're right, we had to be right because we weren't allowed to be wrong, we were punished if we were wrong. We weren't allowed to make mistakes. We were mocked and jeered at and told we were better than that, we're supposed to be smarter than this." 

" _You_ were allowed," Mycroft snarled, " _You_ got away with everything _I_ got punished for." Sherlock stared into the eyes of an angry little boy. "All of it! Touching things, making noises, asking too many questions... _You_ didn't have to earn _your_ bear."

An angry little boy who'd been punished by strangers to the point of abuse, punished for being himself. Who'd grown up forced to suppress his natural self and mimic others until he was made up of bits of other people. Who didn't even feel safe to be himself in his own home. And then he'd watched his little brother grow up without the punishments, allowed to be himself, and didn't know how much Sherlock had resisted the suppression, didn't know how fiercely Sherlock had defended his right to be himself, however weird people thought him. "No, I didn't," he agreed, "What they did to you was wrong. No child should have to earn the right to have his bear. You shouldn't have been punished for being curious." Sherlock hugged his brother tighter and sighed, "It's no wonder we're both so messed up." He sighed again. "We make mistakes, Mycroft. We fuck up, and because we're big people, we fuck up big."

"People _died_ because of my mistakes."

"And Mary died because of mine," Sherlock agreed, "And Jeremy Chattham died because of Tom Magister's mistakes, and Hannah Mariott died because of Craig Marriot's mistakes and Tina Chisley died because of Marion Giesbrecht's mistakes, and three people died and fifteen were injured because of Wayne Misselthwaite's mistakes."

Mycroft looked up at him, "Who are those people?"

"Jeremy Chattham's car was struck by Tom Magister who was drink-driving. Craig Mariott thought the ice that he and his little sister were walking on was thick enough to hold them. Marion Giesbrecht was texting while driving and didn't notice Tina Chisley crossing the street. Wayne Misselthwaite played chicken with that bus last month. Ordinary people get people killed too, Mycroft. And they have to find a way to live with it just as we do."

"And that makes it okay?"

"No. It just is what it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing to add the links originally posted in a comment below. Mycroft [really does](http://68.media.tumblr.com/9e2ef212d0bb5b252715c46cf53086d4/tumblr_inline_oa8evpWQpy1sz51mk_500.jpg) [blend in](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/caffienekitty/11224213/3773287/3773287_600.jpg) [with his](https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/images/ic/976x549_b/p04m78tr.jpg) [surroundings.](https://therandomscribbler.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/sherlock8.png?w=650&h=365) Once you notice it, it's a bit unsettling, especially if you know the kinds of people I know. It's even worse when he [visits 221B Baker Street](https://hypotheticalotter.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/mycroft.png). It seems he usually wears just grey, maybe a bit of navy. The flat is [such a cacaphony](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2014-10/24/5/enhanced/webdr02/anigif_enhanced-1667-1414142744-10_preview.gif), both in decor and in occupants, it's like he just can't blend in, so he shuts down and hides. Bonus pic, the brothers [looking a little _too_ united](http://digitalspyuk.cdnds.net/16/49/768x384/landscape-1479952928-15202624-10154196968591234-8490648695387325184-n.jpg). Mycroft, that's Sherlock's charcoal suit, give it back!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft breaks through.

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."

"Of course," Doctor Taylor said, "What's up?"

Sherlock sighed and said honestly, "Mycroft broke. I'm a little worried."

"Alright," the therapist nodded, and looked at Mycroft. She'd noticed a difference as soon as he'd walked in. He was dressed almost identically to Sherlock and sat with his Paddington Bear in his lap, staring fixedly at his umbrella. "What happened?"

Hedgingly Sherlock explained the events of the previous day and night while Doctor Taylor fought the urge to facepalm. "On the plus side, I now understand why the tapping isn't working for him and why he was breaking in the first place," he finished defensively, "But... he.... hasn't spoken since."

"But you got him to come?"

"He was moving very stiffly, almost... robotically," Sherlock realised, abruptly reminded of Mycroft's 'Mr. Roboto' analogy. 

Dr. Taylor nodded and looked at Mycroft again, "Mycroft? Can you hear me?" He nodded once, faintly. "Are you able to draw?" She slid some large papers and markers in front of him. "You can sit on the floor if it's more comfortable for you. Can you show me where you are?"

Mycroft began to draw with quick, sharp strokes of the marker. Before long, an image took shape of a child bound to a chair, surrounded by towering monsters with shrieking mouths. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, remembering what Mycroft had told him about his "therapy." 

Dr. Taylor sat crosslegged on the floor near Mycroft and studied the drawing. After a few moments, she moved her hand to encircle the drawing. "What kind of," she circled her hand again, "Is that?" 

Mycroft sketched some more, giving some of the monsters what appeared to be his own face, giving others the faces of other people, some of whom Sherlock recognised. Mummy's face, distorted but recognisable, Daddy's, one of the teachers they'd both had in primary, other faces Sherlock didn't know. Finally Mycroft added slanting lines of emphasis and sat back, trembling just slightly.

Dr. Taylor tilted her head again and indicated the lines, "Is there anything else about?" 

Mycroft thought for a moment then sketched in a storm cloud above the scene, turning the lines into driving rain.

The therapist studied the image for a few moments. Sherlock leaned over to see it and gave her a worried glance, "Will he be okay?"

"He's in a lot of pain right now," Dr. Taylor sighed, "But he's able to articulate it." She looked at Mycroft, "This isn't that unusual. Some people need to, I don't like the word 'regress', that's really not what's happening... It's not really 'reverting' either. 'Go back', to a significant period in their lives and rebuild from there. They take back the traits and often the behaviours of that time and use them to get themselves grounded again, then they can rebuild." 

"Reset," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "Yes, I see. I've done that. I didn't know that was a thing but I've done it." He watched Mycroft start to rock with agitation then abruptly halt himself, clutching the bear as he continued to draw. "It reminds me of art therapy," Sherlock said, gazing sadly at a monster with a distorted face reminiscent of Sherrinford's late governor, "I drew something similar once." 

"What intrigues me is this," she indicated the rain and said to Mycroft, "And when, what would you like to have happen?"

Mycroft stared at the drawing for a long time, puzzling it over. He started to rock again and again halted himself abruptly, clenching his jaw. "It's alright," Sherlock said softly. Dr. Taylor nodded and Mycroft relaxed only slightly. He shifted his weight and then his eyes moved to his umbrella. Then he stared at it as though just noticing it for the first time. 

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock murmured. Mycroft had picked up his umbrella and was staring at it as though in wonder. "It tells me how bad it is that it's taken this long. You've always had a thing about umbrellas. I wonder how far back it goes?" He caught Dr. Taylor's eye and smiled his quirky half-smile, "He's always got it with him. John and I used to joke about whether or not he slept with it. I'm pretty sure he doesn't, though." 

Mycroft had picked up his marker again and given the little boy an umbrella to protect him from the storm. Dr. Taylor tapped it. "And when," she circled her finger around the umbrella, boy, and rain, "What would you like to have happen?"

Mycroft thought for a while. Then he leaned over and sketched out Paddington Bear, holding an open umbrella under a cloudy but dry sky.

"He's always liked overcast days best," Sherlock explained quietly, "The sun hurts his eyes." Mycroft reached out and drew a circle around the Paddington. Sherlock nodded, "Found it." They looked at each other and smiled. 

* * * *

"Tea?"

Mycroft nodded and they strode down the high street towards the cafe they sometimes went to after sessions. Nearing one of the clothiers Mycroft frequented, he slowed and became a little hesitant. 

"Want to go in?" 

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock let him lead. Once inside, he went straight for the ties and pocket squares and began searching. Soon he found a set embroidered with tiny umbrellas, showing them to Sherlock with a hesitant expression. 

It took Sherlock a moment to understand why. This wasn't blending in, not to Mycroft. For Mycroft, openly displaying such a quirky interest, this was practically wearing his heart on his sleeve. "The colour looks suitable," he said, "Try it on." The colour was navy -- baby steps. Mycroft had clearly been dithering over this set for some time and Sherlock was prepared to do whatever it took to convince Mycroft to keep it. "You can wear it when you come by to visit." That did the trick. Sherlock couldn't quite hide a small smile as they walked back out into the street, Mycroft's new tie catching the sunlight. 

They bought tea to take away back home, neither of them feeling up to staying long in the public eye. Much as he hated the hat, Sherlock did find it had an advantage: People expected him to wear the hat all the time, so tended not to notice him when he didn't. Even criminals, which was especially amusing and made undercover work so much easier. Still, people **did** recognise him from time to time and he didn't feel up to dealing with that. Once back at Mycroft's home, he took off his coat and scarf but Mycroft went straight for his Netflix (something which had surprised Sherlock, who didn't think Mycroft watched crap telly, let alone Netflix.) But then Mycroft's search pulled up a result and he looked back at Sherlock hesitantly and Sherlock had to grin. "Of course," he agreed, " _Mary Poppins_ , it is. I'll get us some blankets."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks through.

The pre-dawn air was chill but his back was warm. He stretched and registered the presence of the Paddington Bear plushie against his chest. A dim glow lit the room.

"You were having a nightmare," came Sherlock's voice from behind him, "It seemed to help." Mycroft rolled over to see Sherlock looking at his mobile, tracking a light with his eyes. "So was I," he finished, not looking up from his device. 

Mycroft lay back down and pressed his shoulder against Sherlock's back, lending him solidity. After a while, he got up and left the room. Sherlock watched him go but didn't follow. 

Mycroft still hadn't spoken. He'd be more worried about it if Sherlock himself weren't given to days-long silences as well; it was one of the first things he'd disclosed to John Watson when they first met. Doctor Taylor had explained that some people needed to reset themselves and rebuild, Sherlock had recognised instances where he himself had 'reset' like that, so he really wasn't worried that Mycroft still wasn't speaking. Or using any words at all. Not even texting. He wasn't even signing. He wasn't using any form of language. At all. No, he wasn't worried about that. He just needed to accept it, be patient, and wait it out. It's not like he was having any trouble working out what Mycroft **was** communicating. And it **was** giving him some more ideas for how to deal with Eurus.

When Mycroft returned with two cups of tea, Sherlock was tapping at various places on his face and hands, feeling stupid as he did so. Mycroft gave him his tea and helped him to sit up. "It does help. I think it's grounding," Sherlock said as he took the offered cup, "Same principle as the light workout Doctor Taylor uses after her sessions. I think it helps to keep the mind anchored." 

Mycroft said nothing. Sherlock continued the tapping ritual until he felt relatively steady again. They sipped their tea together as dawn glazed the room in lavender, pink and amber.

"The painters have finished and the papering will be done in a few days. The upholsterers were able to salvage the couch but the chairs were a total loss."

Mycroft gave Sherlock an expression of sympathy. 

"I'll need to oversee the work," Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded. "You've been thinking about going up to your cottage in Scotland," he continued, "It might be a good idea. I might be a bit concerned about you staying alone here but you think different thoughts there."

Mycroft nodded again and turned his cup in his hands. Finally he looked at Sherlock with an expression of slightly anxious inquiry. 

Sherlock shrugged, "I've got another problem to focus on. I'll come up once I've got the flat sorted out a bit, how's that?"

Mycroft nodded, relieved. Sherlock smiled. 

* * * *

_Deep waters, Sherlock. All your life._

He snapped back with a gasp. 

"Sherlock?" 

He took a deeper breath, orienting himself, and nodded. 

"What kind of water is that?"

 _I hurt myself today_ "Deep" _To see if I still feel_ "And fog." 

"What kind of fog is that fog?"

 _I focus on the pain_ "Dense." _The only thing that's real._ "Cold. Numb."

"And deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb... And is there anything more about deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb?"

 _The needle tears a hole_ "I can't feel anything." _The old familiar sting_ "The cold saps everything until I'm numb." _Try to kill it all away_ "I remember everything."

"And deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and you can't feel anything, and the cold saps everything until you're numb, and you remember everything.. and when you can't feel anything and the cold saps everything until you're numb and you remember everything, what happens next?"

 _I wear this crown of thorns_ "Coke. Morphine." _Upon my liar's chair_

"And when coke and morphine, what would you like to have happen?"

 _Full of broken thoughts_ "I can reach the surface but it's only temporary." _I cannot repair_ "Something reaches up and drags me back down into the depths."

"And deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and you can't feel anything, and the cold saps everything until you're numb, and you remember everything, and coke and morphine, and you can reach the surface but it's only temporary, and something reaches up and drags you back down into the depths... And what kind of something is that something that reaches up and drags you back down into the depths?"

 _What have I become? My sweetest friend_ Sherlock sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "It's the kraken. It's loud." _Everyone I know goes away in the end_

"And when kraken reaches up and drags you back down into the depths, and loud, what does kraken want to have happen?"

 _And you could have it all_ "To keep me away from the dragon." 

"And what kind of dragon is that dragon?"

 _My empire of dirt_ "Odious. Hateful. It preys on the vulnerable. Preys on the different."

"And the dragon is odious, hateful, and it preys on the vulnerable and preys on the different... And what does dragon want to have happen?"

"It wants to own me. It wants to collect me and everyone near me." _I will let you down_

"And dragon is odious and hateful and it preys on the vulnerable and preys on the different, and it wants to own you and collect you and everyone near you... And when kraken reaches up and drags you back down into the depths and wants to keep you away from the dragon, is there a relationship between kraken and dragon?"

"The kraken owns the dragon." _I will make you hurt._

"And the kraken owns the dragon." _Deep waters, Sherlock. All your life. In your dreams._ "And deep water, and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and the cold saps everything until you're numb, and you remember everything, and coke and morphine, and you can reach the surface but it's only temporary, and kraken reaches up and drags you back into the depths, and keep you away from dragon, and dragon is odious and hateful and it preys on the vulnerable and preys on the different, and it wants to own you and collect you and everyone near you, and kraken owns dragon..."

" **Oh!** ...Funny, I've never noticed that progression before."

"And what would you like to have happen?"

 _All day I face the barren waste_ "Escape." _Without the taste of water_ "Sneak past the dragon. But don't wake it." 

"And you want to escape and sneak past the dragon and don't wake it, what happens next?"

 _Keep a'moving Dan, don't you listen to him Dan, he's a devil not a man and he spreads the burning sand with water_ "I break." _Cool water_

"Follow the light. You're doing fine. You're in a safe space. Do you need a moment to orient yourself?"

Sherlock drew a deep shuddering breath and dragged his hands down his face, then shook himself. "I'm alright. I'm close to something. Let's keep going."

"Alright, then. And deep water, and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and the cold saps everything until you're numb, and you remember everything, and coke and morphine, and you can reach the surface, and kraken reaches up and drags you back into the depths, and keep you away from the dragon, and dragon is odious and hateful and preys on the vulnerable and preys on the different, and it wants to own you, and kraken owns dragon, and escape and sneak past the dragon but don't wake it, and break... And when the cold saps everything until you're numb, and you remember everything, what do you want to have happen?"

 _Scratching the surface, you better come up for air_ "Break the surface." _A new experience to get you there_ "Get out of the water."

"And deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and the cold saps everything until you feel numb, and you remember everything, and break the surface, and get out of the water... And when get out of the water, what happens next?"

"Fog. Dense cold fog and... what? There's a lighthouse..." _Strapped to the media, a machine to fear_ "There's a bloody lighthouse. There are rocks but I can handle those."

"And the cold saps everything until you feel numb, and you remember everything, and break the surface, and get out of the water, and lighthouse, and rocks but you can handle those. Is there anything else about rocks that you can handle?"

 _The ocean is a desert with its life underground and the perfect disguise above_ "I can climb them. I can find footholds. The water might pound me against them but I can take that. If I can climb them, I can get out of the water. I can reach the lighthouse." _Under the city lies a heart made of ground but the humans will give no love_

"And the cold saps everything until you feel numb, and you remember everything, and break the surface, and get out of the water, and lighthouse, and rocks but you can handle those, and you can climb them, you can find footholds, and you can climb them and get out of the water, and you can reach the lighthouse. And when reach the lighthouse, what would you like to have happen?"

 _I've been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain_ "I can get warm. I can dry off." _In the desert you can remember your name_ "I can warm up. I can feel again." _Because there ain't no one for to give you no pain_

"And deep water and fog that's dense and cold and numb, and the cold saps everything until you feel numb, and you remember everything, and break the surface, and get out of the water, and lighthouse, and rocks but you can handle those, and climb them and find footholds, and get out of the water and reach the lighthouse, and get warm and dry off and feel again... And when warm and dry off and feel again, that's like....... what?"

 _Winding your way down Baker Street, light in your head and dead on your feet_  
_This city desert makes you feel so cold, it's got so many people but it's got no soul and it's taken you so long to find out you were wrong when you thought it held everything_  
_Way down the street there's a light in his place, he opens the door he's got that look on his face, and he asks you where you've been, you tell him who you've seen and you talk about everything_

"Home."

* * * *

"Your car will be here soon," Sherlock said. The driver was one of the ushers from Diogenes, which was suitable since Mycroft still wasn't speaking. "I'm sure Mr. Wilder will enjoy a bit of Scottish holiday. You **are** allowing him to take some holiday, aren't you?" 

Mycroft nodded.

"I put Glide on your phone by the way, that way you won't have to text me. I'll come up once I've got the flat sorted out. Contact me if you need me sooner than that, alright? Your PA has instructions to keep a helicopter on stand-by." Mycroft looked slightly surprised. Sherlock looked down and bit his lip for a moment, then looked up at him, "I'll be there for you. I'll always be there for you." Mycroft blinked hard but his eyes were damp. 

Sherlock took a piece of paper out of his pocket and affixed it to the coat of Mycroft's Paddington Bear. Mycroft turned it to read the handwritten note saying 'Please take care of this bear.' And surely it was the biting wind that made Mycroft's eyes water like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs running through Sherlock's head are:  
> [ _Hurt_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ahHWROn8M0), Johnny Cash's cover version  
> [ _Cool Water_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9JQkxu_ofE), Marty Robins' cover version  
> [ _Scratching The Surface_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=duZ0b9AHlko), Saga  
> [ _Horse With No Name_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2naehMUQpQY), America  
> [ _Baker Street_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Yi762sQTo), Gerry Rafferty's original
> 
> Sherlock's kraken is inspired by the wonderful pre-S3 fic [_Recovery Position_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/518072/chapters/914960) by Rhyolight. The image has stuck in my head for years and simply could not be improved upon, and after S4's fixation on 'deep water', it just fit in perfectly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's kraken are having a field day.

He swung the door open and paused at the threshold. The chemical smells of new drylining, new paint, and fresh wallpapering still hung in the air but 221 Baker Street was starting to recover. 

"Starting to feel like home again, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson stepped out of her flat, heels clicking on the naked floor, "Want to have a look?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. They went up the stairs together and he opened the door to the B flat. He felt an immediate wave of powerful... something.... - relief? - upon seeing the familiar wallpaper and green walls. 

"The tilers are nearly finished the backsplashes and the floorers will begin next week," Mrs. Hudson told him, "They'll do the linoleum first and then the carpet-layers will begin."

Sherlock nodded. "They still make my chair," he said, "John's is no longer made but there's a similar model available. It's a recliner, he'll like that."

"I had a few alterations made to the new cabinetry. I'm ordering all new appliances," Mrs. Hudson shot him a sideways look, "Including a small fridge for your experiments, AND you're to keep them to it, young man!"

Sherlock's face split into a wide grin, "Boring. My way is so much more interesting."

"'Your way' is absolutely unhygenic and completely unacceptable with a young baby in the house, given the amount of time you're going to spend babysitting, young man."

Oops - that's the second time she'd called him 'young man.' She was serious, then. He'd learned to take Mrs. Hudson seriously when she was serious because she was really **really** serious about being serious. "If you insist."

She smiled and patted his shoulder as she turned away. He heard her shoes clicking around the flat and turned to look out the windows overlooking the street. The glaziers had installed new triple panes that would provide better insulation. _Exactly the man who doesn't notice_ The weather hadn't had time to streak them yet so it looked like _when there's nothing to see through._

He crashed down the stairs, flung the door open, and bolted out into the street, heedless of Mrs. Hudson calling after him. 

* * * *

_Stupid stupid stupid idiot! You unbelievable cock-up!_

_It took you this long to realize?!_

_How did it take you THIS LONG to realize?!_

_Thought you were supposed to be smart!_

_You're not smart, you're an idiot!_

_It took you this long to figure it out? MORON!_

_You should give up detecting. You're no better than the idiots at the Yard. Go back to cooking meth. It's all a stupid git like you is good for, now._

_She only TOLD YOU right up front! And you didn't even NOTICE!_

The door slammed open, startling Lestrade and causing him to scald himself with his tea. "Oh good morning, Sherlock, come on in," he deadpanned, shaking his hand to cool it and reaching for some tissues.

"Where did you say you found Mycroft? At Sherrinford, where did you find him?"

Lestrade frowned, puzzled, "Sherrinford? She'd locked him in her cell, that's all. Why?"

"Eurus's cell _didn't have walls._ She'd taken the glass out, there was nothing there. So either she'd put him somewhere else or she did something to him. How did you find him, what state was he in? **What did she do?** "

Lestrade shook his head, "She just tied him up and left him in her cell."

"How?"

"She tied him to a chair."

" **How?** "

"She'd just taped his wrists down and taped his mouth shut. ....Sherlock? What's this about? Sherlock? **Sherlock!** " Lestrade stared after the retreating shape and shook his head, baffled.

* * * *

_I still can't believe it took you THIS BLOODY LONG to figure it out!_

"Yes, yes, I get it, I'm slow."

_He's been suffering like this and it took you this long._

"To be fair, even if I had realized it sooner, I wouldn't have recognised the significance of it. I didn't **know** that that had been done to him. He's never told me before." Sherlock huffed, annoyed with himself. He bent to his task, polishing the soot and charred spots off the skull. "This wasn't just about me, it was about Mycroft, too, the brother who'd kept her imprisoned for so many years and used her intellect for his own ends, never mind that they were for the good of the country. I have no idea how **she** knew about what happened to him, but **I** didn't know anything about it so I **still** wouldn't have understood the significance. I **still** wouldn't have connected it to why he's been suffering so much." He picked up a knife and scraped carefully at a charred, splintered area, then picked up the polishing cloth again. 

Then he noticed that his mind had gone silent. "Is that what it takes to shut you up?" he asked it quietly. There was no answer. His kraken were finally quiet, the waters growing calm. He smiled slightly and breathed a soft sigh of relief, knowing the fragile peace wouldn't last and determined to enjoy it while it did. 

"Sherlock? Are you talking to your skull again, dear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"Most people don't externalise their internal dialogues like that, you know."

"Mm, quite. And most landladies don't drive drifting doughnuts around roundabouts with their tenants stuffed in the boot," he said insouciently.

"Well they should," she grinned back, "It would improve their rent."

"I could argue about paying rent on a flat I can't live in," Sherlock smirked.

She chuckled. "And how is your brother? Have you had any contact from him yet?"

"Oh yes, he sent me pictures en route. He sent a picture when he arrived.

"Has he..........?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, not yet. He seems to have taken up oil painting, though." He brought up an image on his phone and showed her. "It's quite unusual. He doesn't really have any hobbies that aren't related to his work."

"So, like you then," Mrs. Hudson quipped. 

He grinned at her, "Yes, rather a lot like me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is liminal.

_What would you like to have happen?_

Indeed. What did he hope for, coming all the way out here? Mycroft gazed out the window at the dark water, stained purple by the first streaks of dawn, and sipped his tea. Nevertheless, he'd felt a tightness within him relax as soon as he'd reached the island, and when he'd unlocked the cottage door and stepped in, he'd felt a knot unwind. But then, he'd always liked Jura. 

He breathed in the smells of salt and sea and old cottage and tea, and exhaled. Crackaig Bay was near enough to the village of Craighouse to be convenient but far enough away to be relatively peaceful. There were holiday homes for tourists now, sadly, and occasionally he wondered if he shouldn't have bought on Jura's uninhabited west coast instead. But it was quiet now. 

Perhaps it was strange to paint a still life of his breakfast but... that was the point. He had nothing better to do and the oranges were nicely vibrant. The soft-boiled egg in its cup would be a nice challenge.

Even Mycroft occasionally got bored on Jura. He'd gone to Craighouse to check in with Mr. Wilder, who had settled into a holiday home near the village. His hosts had offered him a discounted rate in exchange for lessons in British Sign Language, and now he was running a little class in the village community hall. One of the local artists held art classes in the same hall and since Mycroft was already quite fluent in BSL, he'd decided to try oil painting. And discovered he quite enjoyed it, so he'd ordered some water mixable oil paints and a small pochade paint box, since Jura offered wonderful landscapes with turbulant seas and skies. He'd spent some time on YouTube and discovered some artists using techniques that made his skin crawl. And he knew, that was the direction he had to go. 

_Dark to light. Top to bottom. Don't go outside the lines._ Those were the art rules he'd been taught, all through school. Even the community centre instructor followed them... mostly. 

Filling his brush with bright orange, flicking it well outside the lines, into where the background should go... Something deep inside him shivered with anxiety.

_Don't smudge the colours._

He placed a stroke of the background colour, smearing the bright orange into it. Another stroke smeared the background colour onto the orange. He was making a mess of things. Just like he'd made a mess of Sherrinford.

He dipped a toast finger into his egg. His hands were shaking.

Place the most saturated colours first. Go outside the lines. Smear the edges. Define the shapes with negative space.

His gut twisted in knots. He'd had the nightmare again last night. 

_What would you like to have happen?_

He got up to pour another cup of tea and looked critically at the small painting. From a distance, the smeared paint looked like reflected light. The oranges seemed to glow. The egg seemed vibrant. 

He went to the bathroom and fought throwing up for nearly ten minutes.

* * * *

He'd taken to walking to Craighouse every day. Mr. Wilder wanted to visit the Corryvreckan at the north of Jura, but that was a hike of several miles after the road ended, and Mr. Wilder was not young. Mycroft felt it would be wiser to accompany him and thus, despite his aversion to legwork, he needed to build up his strength. 

The Corryvreckan, from Gaidhlig, Scottish Gaelic, _Coire Bhreacan_ , meaning the cauldron of the plaid, 'plaid' indicating the heavy woolen cloth worn as a kilt, earasaid, or cloak, which may or may not be woven in a checked 'plaid' pattern. He had watched as Mr. Wilder had explained the myth of how the goddess of winter, the Cailleach Bheur, washed her multi-coloured plaid in the Coire until it foamed and seethed, then spread it out over the land, blanketing everything with the whitened cloth.

The Strait of Corryvreckan lay between Jura and its neighbor Scarba, to the north. A deep channel with irregular topography lay between the islands, through which a tidal race flowed as the North Atlantic pushed through at an alarming speed. The area was a maelstrom, the third largest in the world, and formed fascinating features like standing waves. The most dangerous and renowned feature, the feature that made the Corryvreckan famous and also garnered its fearsome reputation, were the enormous whirlpools that formed without warning, large enough to drop small craft and strong enough to rip apart outboard motors. 

Mycroft thought it was a good allegory for how he felt. Sucked down into a violent maelstrom, pummelled and bruised by the turbulent waters, then hung out to dry.

He packed up his pochade paint box and put on his coat and boots. He swung the door open and the cold dawn wind hit him full on. His boots clopped on the cobbles and crunched into the sandy grass as he made his way down towards the rocky beach. He found a place to sit and opened his pochade. He started mixing paint and started sketching out the values with quick strokes of the brush, capturing them loosely as they changed with the sunrise. 

He wanted to find a way to make peace with it all, if one could ever make peace with such magnitude of horror. The way the blood wells up and streams down the face of a man who's shot himself through the mouth. The way the head snaps back when a woman is shot through the forehead. The sight of his sister, his own blood relative, murdering with such practiced ease. The knowledge that he had woken her up. 

Except...

Except......

He mixed the brightest, most saturated colours next and laid them in bold strokes across the sky. Vivid pinks, oranges, and lavenders, blending up into deep indigo and violet.

_Is there anything more about woken up?_

Except that he **hadn't** , really, had he? Eurus had asked for five minutes with Moriarty. She had already known about him. She was already formulating some sort of plan when she'd asked for him. 

He started laying down the darkest shadows next, the deepest values. He steeled himself and flicked the brush, smearing paint outside the lines of the sketch.

She'd already had a plan when she'd asked for Jim Moriarty. Just how far ahead did she see?

He mixed paint for the grass and stroked the brush firmly across the canvas panel, smearing the paint across the sky and the rock shadows.

What would he have done if Sherlock's bluff hadn't worked? Now _that_ had taken Eurus by surprise. She hadn't seen _that_ coming. Which made it harder to know just what she **did** see coming. 

_"That's **your** voice, isn't it."_

He'd given **explicit** orders not to engage with Eurus and this was **why,** to try to **prevent** this from happening. But it happened anyways. It had happened anyways. Just like she had planned. 

The waves reflected the colours of the sunrise. They were choppy and he thought about how to render that in paint. Then he flicked his brush firmly, smearing paint together. 

_What would you like to have happen?_

The sea wind was cold. Storm clouds were thickening on the horizon but he should have time to finish his walk before it struck. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the sunrise to send to Sherlock. 

* * * *

Painting Paddington Bear. It sounded like a miniseries on the telly, really. He'd started with Paddington's yellow hat and blue coat. He was alright with the hat but the coat was going to trigger some anxiety so he had a cup of tea ready. 

He'd had the nightmare again last night, but he was managing. The light did help, and the tapping helped to ground himself in the present. As did tea. A cup of tea was so wonderfully grounding.

He mixed blue paint and flicked it down, wincing as the strokes carried out of the coat's outline and into the fur areas. Going outside the lines, going outside the rules. He'd spent his life bending rules while never quite breaking them. He'd spent his life creating unconventional solutions but he'd never quite managed with Eurus. Uncle Rudy's solution seemed to be the only one there was. 

He mixed yellow ochre for the fur and laid a stroke down with the brush, crossing over the smears of blue and wincing as it promptly smudged, contaminating the dull yellow-grey. As Eurus contaminated everyone she spoke to. Including the governor he'd trusted with his sister's safety. Including himself.

He'd given **explicit** orders not to engage with Eurus and this was **why,** to try to **prevent** this from happening. But it happened anyways. It had happened anyways. Just like she had planned. He could blame the governor's compassion but he didn't know _exactly_ how that session had come to be arranged. He really didn't know whether the governor had reached out to Eurus, or if she had reached out to him. At this point, he was forced to entertain that it very well may have been the latter. 

The blue and the ochre, smearing into each other, contaminating each other. He could blame the governor's compassion but... he could blame his own, as well. When he'd brought her problems, Mycroft had hoped to give her some sense of purpose, a direction to apply her intellect, as he and Sherlock had found directions for theirs. Sherlock had found his way out of addiction when he'd found his opportunity as a detective; similarly, Mycroft had hoped to give Eurus a sense of usefulness. perhaps accomplishment and pride. Apparently that had backfired. 

Mixing burnt sienna into the blue, greying it, darkening it to paint the shadows. Caring was not an advantage. He had only himself to blame for this, all of this. He hadn't spoken a word a long time. He hadn't even signed. 

_Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands._

He stared at the painting. Up close, the yellow ochre and blue paints smeared and polluted each other but from a distance, it looked like the blue light from the coat reflecting up through the dun yellow fur. The yellow of the hat was reflected in the background and the background was reflected in the hat. He couldn't not be affected by what happened around him. He couldn't not be affected by Eurus or the governor or Sherlock or Doctor Watson. What he needed was _context_

**_NO! No no no no not context I have enough bloody context What I need is_ **

_distance_

He regarded the painting again. Distance, that might work. Objectivity. **_No, that's not quite it._**

_Harmony_

He sighed. Harmony, that was closer. Though how he was meant to achieve that, he had no idea, but it was a start. 

_That's harmony like.... what?_ Like the painting. 

_Ah... that's what Sherlock had meant._ He had no idea what happened but something inside him had... _shifted_ , somehow. He felt a knot releasing. He guessed that whatever his subconscious mind needed to process this mess, it had just received and he felt... looser. 

_"Quiet hands, Mycroft. Quiet hands."_

**_No._** He picked up his brush and loaded it with colour, then drew a bold, firm stroke across the shadow side of the coat, smearing it and redefining it. He continued redefining the bear until the sun went down.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surfacing from the maelstrom

"I don't know what to do." Sherlock stared down at the teacup in his hands. He hated admitting this but it was true. "I found out that something happened to Mycroft that may be why he's in this state now, and I don't know what to do about it."

"What would you like to have happen?"

"I want to support him but I don't know how. He's still not speaking. He's still in that 'quiet hands' state."

Doctor Taylor nodded thoughtfully. "We discussed before about how some people need to 'reset' by returning to a state, complete with its behaviours."

"Yes."

"A lot of that damage stemmed from those behaviours having been punished because they were deemed so unacceptable."

"I just don't understand that," Sherlock sighed.

Doctor Taylor nodded, "Me neither, quite frankly. Nowadays, there are different methods of working with a child's behaviours. I could give you some resources."

Sherlock nodded but frowned, "He's not a child, though."

"No, but the behaviours are still within him, as you've noticed. Providing alternative means of expressing them might provide the acceptance his subconscious needs to rebuild."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips against his lips and turning towards the window. Acceptance... He'd always accepted his big brother's own idiosyncrasies (mostly.) But he'd been going on inaccurate data. 

Eurus had known exactly what to do to break Mycroft. She'd beaten him down and then shattered him. After Mary's death, Sherlock had already hit bottom and was climbing back up, it was easy enough to catch Mycroft on his way down. There was no way to stop Mycroft from crashing, so Sherlock had just done his best to make the crash as predictable and controlled as possible, in an effort to minimize the damage. That appeared to have worked, as Mycroft was still articulating, even if he wasn't using language. 

_My god, I really do use a lot of metaphors._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock finally looked up. "I was thinking of a metaphor someone else used, about a plane in the air and they were the only person on board who was awake."

Doctor Taylor smiled lightly, "What did they want to have happen?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I thought they wanted to get down but... maybe that was wrong?"

"Maybe," the therapist agreed, "Maybe they wanted to fly the plane themselves. Maybe they wanted to fly it somewhere else or turn it around. Maybe they wanted to jump out of the plane with a parachute. Or maybe they wanted to wake up everybody on the plane."

"So that's why you always ask that question. But you always ask it the same way? I've noticed you seem to ask the same questions the same way. Like a script?"

Doctor Taylor nodded, "Yes. Doctor Groves designed the Clean Language questions to try to keep the therapist's own ideas from imposing onto the client's. There's a set of twelve questions most commonly in use, intended to elicit information and work within the client's metaphors."

"Always delivered in that sing-song voice?"

She nodded again, "To keep the client immersed in the metaphors."

Sherlock sat back and sighed worriedly, "I wish I'd known about it sooner."

"What would you like to have happen?"

Sherlock sighed again and scrubbed his hands briefly through his hair. "I need to support Mycroft. And then I need to be ready."

"For?"

"The little girl on the plane."

* * * *

The helicopter set down on the island and Sherlock stepped out. He pulled his carry-all down and slung it over his shoulder, then marched towards the building. The wind was cold but it wasn't raining yet. He'd texted ahead and knew he was expected. He pushed the door open and went inside. 

Inside, the cottage was snug and warm and smelled of tea and fresh baking. The soft strains of Vivaldi emanated from the stereo speakers. "I'm here," he called and set his carry-all down gently, careful of the violin case within it. He unbuttoned his coat and removed his scarf, hanging it with the coat. 

Mycroft emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with tea and hot scones and a smile that told Sherlock he'd been missed. He couldn't resist smiling back. "You're looking better," he said. 

Mycroft shrugged but nodded.

"Still having nightmares?"

Mycroft nodded again, looking resigned.

"Are you managing?"

Another nod. 

"Good. So am I." Sherlock hung up his coat then sat down on the chair beside the woodstove and accepted a cup of tea. Mycroft was still silent, though Mr. Wilder had Glided Sherlock to inform him that Mycroft had signed a little yesterday. Sherlock made a sudden noise of remembering and swallowed his tea, jumping up to reach for his carry-all. "I brought you something." He dug out a small shipping box and passed it to Mycroft.

Mycroft noted the post mark with curiosity and took out a utility knife to slit open the package. He slit open the plastic baggie containing a ring. It was a very nice ring, gold with a braided band, and he gave his little brother a puzzled look, wondering why Sherlock would buy him jewellery. He put it on and discovered that the setting twirled about. He shot Sherlock another puzzled look and investigated the package further, withdrawing another plastic baggie containing a modelled knight chesspiece in stately black silicone.

"It's a chewable pen topper," Sherlock clarified, "I noticed you sometimes chew on the top of your pens when you're planning. The ring is a fidget ring, you can spin it around. Look again, there's more."

So Mycroft dug around in the box again and withdrew a small stuffed pillow made of **very** soft, plush fuzzy fabric. It was so soft and plush, he instantly wanted to stroke it and keep stroking it. It was squeezy and the right size and shape to fit unobtrusively into his pocket. Again he gave Sherlock a puzzled look but Sherlock just smiled and made a 'keep going' gesture. There was one more thing inside the box: A small toy umbrella, exactly the right size to fit his Paddington Bear. 

"The only tartan they had was Royal Stewart," Sherlock said. But Mycroft just grinned and immediately went to hook the umbrella over Paddington's wrist. Then he turned to give Sherlock the puzzled look again. 

"Doctor Taylor's idea," Sherlock shrugged, "She thought it might be helpful." 

Mycroft shrugged and nodded and sat down again with his tea. He gave Sherlock a look of inquiry. 

"The flat is almost habitable," Sherlock reported, "I should be able to move back in within the fortnight. It should be even better, everything's been brought up to code and a lot has been modernised."   
Mycroft smiled and sipped his tea. They sipped in comfortable silence for several minutes, then Sherlock spoke again. "You've been busy, though," he said, "Oil painting? What sparked that?"

Mycroft got up to fetch the pamphlet advertising the classes at the village community hall. Sherlock followed him, stopping to look at the fresh canvas panels laid out on a shelf to dry. 

They were all different subjects, from landscapes to still life. Most were small and ranged from simple quick paint sketches to finished paintings. It was easy to chart Mycroft's progress as he developed his skills. "Interesting," Sherlock said, "I would have thought you would be more of a realist painter than this sort of impressionist style." He indicated a small painting of Paddington Bear, "This one is particularly impressive. You had some sort of breakthrough there."

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock glanced at him then did a minute double-take. "Ah," he said softly, suddenly understanding, "More than one kind of breakthrough." He hesitated for a few moments, then spoke in a gentle voice, "Mummy will forgive you eventually. I already have. The families of the governor and his wife, probably never. The person whose forgiveness is the hardest to earn is your own." He glanced up to see Mycroft staring at a painting of seaweed pushed up along a beach. Finally he turned to look at Sherlock sympathetically. Sherlock shrugged with a little half-smile, "For the record, I still haven't earned mine."

* * * *

It was several miles' walk to the cliffs overlooking the Corryvreckan. Despite being well used to 'legwork', even Sherlock was glad to sit down at the end of it, and they still had to walk back. Briefly he wondered whether it would be a bit not-good to call for a helicopter. 

A cold wind drove up through the narrow strait, carrying the noise of the churning maelstrom below. He sat on Mycroft's windward side, sheltering his brother so that he could paint. Mycroft laid down the paint in bold strokes and Sherlock watched with interest. His brother seemed much more confident than he actually felt, that much was plain to Sherlock's eyes. The method triggered anxiety, that was obvious, yet Mycroft continued to work through it. 

Sherlock watched as the shapes of the rocks and the foaming water and the distant hills of Scarba took shape on the canvas panel. "John's coming back," he said quietly, "We'll turn the upstairs bedroom into Rosie's room." Mycroft paused and frowned with the realisation that 221B only had two bedrooms. The ghost of a smile twitched at Sherlock's lips, "I'm sure I'll get used to his snoring."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Congratulations," he said. 

Sherlock smiled. "There's a lot to consider," he continued, "We're in negotiations. He looked out over the roaring maelstrom, across the strait towards Scarba. "I think it'll be alright."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goldfish and cougars and bears, oh my!

It started raining after breakfast. Sherlock noticed Mycroft eyeing his eggshell in the way that meant he was thinking of reaching for his paint box, and he pushed back his chair. He picked up his violin and sat with it in rest position for a few moments, limbering his fingers while Mycroft went for his paints. He tucked the violin under his chin then paused. "Did you ever have any hobbies like this, as a child? Painting, drawing? Music?"

Mycroft shook his head as he squeezed out his paints. Sherlock nodded thoughtfully then set bow to string and began to play. 

Nearly an hour later, halfway through painting the shadows on the egg cup, Mycroft asked, "Why?"

Sherlock stopped playing and looked around from the window, "Hmm?"

"Why?"

Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment before remembering, "Oh! - Why did I ask? It's just part of a pattern I'm noticing."

Mycroft looked around at him inquiringly, idly nibbling on the cyan chess queen pen topper someone had thoughtfully put onto his paint brush.

"You didn't have your own words," Sherlock said, thinking about how to explain, "You were.. suppressed, prevented. Then you had no means of self-expression. Then you had no self to express. Then you began building out of bits of other people, other people's words. And I've seen that before, Molly does that."

"'Indistinguishable from peers,'" Mycroft said softly. Sherlock stared at him. 

"Eurus put you back in that place," Sherlock continued gently, "And when you broke, you went back into silence, but in silence you could draw. You communicated with your drawings, I understood you, Doctor Taylor understood you. You came here and then you found the painting classes and you found your way forward. You could have stayed with the realist style, but instead you're pursuing this more impressionist style that you're clearly uncomfortable with but it's challenging for you to break the old rules and follow new ones and you know you need that now. You had a breakthrough with the Paddington Bear, not just with the art, and it shows. You don't just have a means of self-expression now. You've got a self to express."

Mycroft stared at him for a moment then turned to regard his painting again. He glanced back at Sherlock doubtfully, "Eggshells?"

Sherlock shrugged his violin, "Tchaikovsky? Perhaps you were feeling fragile or hollowed out. Or, they contained the egg until it was cooked and eaten, they served their purpose with distinction. Or perhaps they're just pretty, does it matter?"

Mycroft looked at the painting again, "The shadows looked challenging." Sherlock just smiled and raised his bow again. 

* * * * 

The rain drummed on the roof and grey light filtered through the cottage windows. Sherlock cupped his tea to warm his hands, snuggled on the couch under a tartan wool blanket. They'd spent the afternoon watching the painting DVDs Mycroft had bought and videos of painters on YouTube. Sherlock had flipped through a few of the books as well, figuring he should take an interest now that his big brother had found a hobby. He himself was a decent enough sketch artist when he wanted to be, but it had never really been his thing. 

He checked his mobile and his lip twitched. "Lady Smallwood's been asking after you," he said, "Rather more personally than a professional colleague normally would."

Mycroft shrugged from his armchair, "She gave me her card, once. Invited me for drinks."

Sherlock flexed an eyebrow, "It's been just over a year since her husband died."

"And she repeatedly tolerated his infidelities and other indiscretions," Mycroft agreed, "A bit too goldfish of a trait in an otherwise excellent personality."

"Greg Lestrade's been asking after you, too."

"Why?"

Sherlock looked back at the DVD on the telly, "He had a rather insistent conversation with John. I believe he's... come to a decision."

"A goldfish with integrity, at least."

"He'll be disappointed?"

Mycroft sighed. "I don't know," he said doubtfully, "I'm a bit old for goldfish."

Sherlock shrugged and smirked, "Lestrade is an old goldfish."

"Lady Smallwood is even older."

"Hmm. True," Sherlock nodded then frowned, "She's sixty-seven this year, isn't she? Not just a goldfish but a cougar!" Mycroft burst into giggles. "At least Lestrade's only got five years on you, not nineteen!" Mycroft laughed even harder. "I mean if you **want** to be a cabana boy, that's none of my business, I'm sure."

"Oh my god, Sherlock!"

"And Lestrade thinks he's too..." Sherlock twirled his wrist, "Rough, for you, I guess. Embarrass you in front of the nobs, sort of thing, you're much too posh."

"Oh my god, Sherlock, stop!" Mycroft laughed, " **Why** are we discussing my hypothetical love life?"

Sherlock flipped over on the couch and grinned at him over the cushion, "It's making you laugh." Mycroft fell into a slightly embarrassed silence. "Besides, I need the practice. **Oh** I _love_ that skull, look at that, it's gorgeous! I certainly didn't expect to see that on a DVD about figures but it makes sense! Do you suppose he's still got it, or surely it's been sold by now? Do you think he'd be open to commissions?"

"I was considering taking one of his workshops," Mycroft shrugged, "If I do, I suppose I could ask."

"Yes, do that. Take the workshop, this style is definitely working for you."

"You really think so?"

Sherlock peered over the couch cushion again. "Yeah, I really do."

"Thank you," Mycroft said quietly. He looked down at his teacup. "You're better at this big brother thing than I am, I think."

Sherlock peered at him again. "Well... I had a good example to work from." Then he grinned devilishly, "John's simply an excellent role model, even Harry says so..." Mycroft threw his scone at him.

* * * *

Sherlock shivered against the damp chill that burrowed easily through his woolen overcoat and jumper and fought to settle into his bones. It was cold enough that he wore a knitted watchcap and his curls sprang from beneath it to be whipped by the wind into an unruly frizz. He faced the wind, shielding Mycroft in his lee as his older brother steadied his pochade box. There was seaweed on the rocks of Crackaig Bay in front of the cottage, pushed up by the tide. He'd insisted on trying to paint it right then and Sherlock didn't question it at all. 

And when he'd finished, they fought the wind back up to the cottage where the fires were warm and the stew was simmering and the aromas made both of them aware of how hungry they'd become. Sherlock put the kettle on while Mycroft put his new painting up onto the shelf to dry.

"Mrs. Hudson says 221 is ready to move into," Sherlock reported, after checking his email. 

Mycroft came out of the bathroom with a towel and another for Sherlock. "You'll be going home, then?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded, "I should. For a little while, anyways, a week at least. I want to get settled back in, get the place feeling like home again. Then I'll visit Eurus."

Mycroft stopped. "Eurus."

"Yes."

"She's not speaking."

"Neither were you," Sherlock smiled gently, "But there are other ways to communicate. I've got a pretty good idea now of what I'd like to have happen." He threw the damp towel over a chair and reached for his violin.

Mycroft went to serve the stew as _The Sound of Silence_ filled the cottage in sweet, plaintive tones.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ain't heavy

_**Apparently I got it wrong.** _

_"My name's Sherlock Holmes."_

_"The detective?"_

_"The pirate!" he said, and leaped down onto the deck. The ship lurched and lolled in the rough seas, making controlling the wheel even more difficult as the deck refused to pick an angle. They were caught, the current dragging them towards the maelstrom that churned and frothed, its furious roar audible for miles._

_"Tick-tock, Sherlock!"_

_A massive standing wave reared up behind them, nine, ten, fifteen feet above the maelstrom's surface and he fought to pull the ship around. He looked down, horrified, as a huge whirlpool opened and dragged the ship around. The roaring filled his ears._

_**You weren't laughing** _

_The monster broke through the water and reared up, towering over the ship. Its roaring filled his ears._

_**You were screaming.** _

_"I'll show you to your vehicle now," Doctor Taylor said pleasantly. He grinned at his brother and together they waded out into the strait, catching the ship and lifting it out of the water to safety, in their massive metal hand._

_**Sixteen by six, brother** _

_The monster screamed and leaped, plunging its blades through John's shoulder._

_**You weren't laughing** _

_"John!"_

_He tried to get their weapon working but the monster leaped again. It grappled with them, clawing at their head, ripping open the metal. Rain flooded the cockpit._

_**You were screaming.** _

_Mycroft turned and stared at him, terror naked on his face._

_**Sixteen by six, brother** _

_And the monster reached in and dragged Mycroft away._

_**And under we go.** _

_"Mycroft! MYCROFT!! **MYCROFT!!** "_

He snapped awake with a choked gasp. He swallowed and the salt water that filled his mouth turned out to be tears. A strong arm held him and he let himself sag against the warm body pressed against his back. 

"You were having a nightmare," Mycroft said, "It seemed to help."

Sherlock nodded in silence, scrubbing his face with the bedsheet. "I need the practice anyways," he rasped. 

"Are you alright? Shall I make you some tea?"

Sherlock fought to steady his breathing. "Not yet, give me a few minutes."

"Alright."

Thunder rolled outside, then a sharp flash of lightning lit up the window around the draperies. The rain drummed on the roof of the cottage. "Doctor Taylor warned me about this," he said, "The techniques we're doing, they might stir up other memories. Open the dungeon, as it were. She thinks it happens because the mind is feeling safe enough to release and process them."

Mycroft looked at him uneasily, "That's what's happening?

Sherlock shook his head, "Not yet but I think it's about to. I think that was my mind giving me a warning shot. I'm about to start dealing with Eurus so I'm really not surprised." Mycroft looked at him again - Sherlock had locked an awful lot of demons in his dungeon. The thought of all of those memories bursting out.... "I'll take that tea, now."

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock followed him out to the kitchen. He pulled his dressing gown around himself and shivered, then wrapped himself up in the tartan blanket and sat on the couch. Mycroft poked the fire back to life then sat beside him, handing him a mug of tea. Sherlock took a sip then leaned against his brother.

"Are you certain about this?"

Sherlock couldn't help himself, he started to laugh. "I haven't been _less_ certain of anything in my life! I don't remember her, I don't remember what she did, but she **does** remember me and it's going to stir things up. That's why I wanted to take that boating trip across the Corryvrecken. It's coming up as a metaphor and I wanted to see how it works. But I think I can cope with it, I think I've got the means. And I've got my lighthouse."

"John Watson."

"Always."

* * * *

A thick fog had settled over the island and the air felt cold and clammy. Sherlock wrapped his muffler around his neck and popped his collar up to protect his nape from the chill. The cottage was warm, snug and smelled like last night's cabbage rolls, and he felt reluctant to leave its sanctuary. 

"Mr. Wilder just texted. The ferry is delayed but the fog is expected to lift before too long. You should be able to reach London by tonight."

"Good," Sherlock sighed. The need to get home to 221B Baker Street was powerful. "You'll be alright?"

Mycroft nodded with more confidence now. "Yes, I think so. I think I need to stay here a while longer before I go home. Even after I go home, I think it will still be a while before I feel ready to go back to work."

"Take all the time you need," Sherlock said softly, "You've carried England on your shoulders for years, England can carry you for a while."

Mycroft was quiet. "Thank you for being patient with me," he said.

Sherlock shrugged and looked at the floor for a moment. Then he glanced up, then away. Neither of them were much for sentimental displays but... Feeling awkward, he reached out and hugged Mycroft, who looked startled then hugged back. "You're my brother."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home.

Turn the key in the lock and swing the door open 

_Smells: New carpet, new paint, old lath-and-plaster, damp, scones baking, new furnishings, tea (assam, blended, no single estate), tea (orange pekoe, bagged, cheap), baby powder, soiled nappies, chickpea curry, fireplace._

Climb the seventeen steps

_Sounds: Two new creaks, fixed the worst one, no more Moriarty Step, Black Sabbath from the A flat, baby squealing, Mrs. Hudson's voice, on phone, clock ticking, squeaks from the upstairs kitchen, weight shifting from foot to foot._

Open the door of the B flat

_Sights: John's new chair (replacement, similar, reclining model), own new chair (replica, identical), fireplace going, skull, bookshelves, new telly (larger, flatscreen, on taller stand to protect it from tiny human), new rug, windows, draperies, bull skull (original headphones, restored), microscope, music stand, couch (original, restored), wallpaper, yellow spraypaint smiley (restoration, John's), playpen, rattle, dummy, kitchen, John._

_John._

_Two cups of tea (orange pekoe, bagged, cheap)_

Take off coat and muffler, accept tea.

_Sensations: Satin lining of coat, soft merino of muffler, cotton shirt, cold hands, warm teacup, hot tea, sweetened with honey, scalded tongue_

"Welcome home."

_Smile, hesitation, apprehension, warmth, sturdy stout body, pressure of strong arms, stubble, temperature differential between warm cheek and own cold cheek_

"You're getting better at this, hugging."

"I've been practicing."

Kick off shoes, collapse into own chair beside fire. 

_New foam, new leather, does not conform to body, stiff, not yet comfortable._

_Much like John._

Put tea down, accept baby, cuddle on knee in secure hold, watch John take his seat opposite.

"How's Mycroft?"

"Improving."

"He didn't come with you?"

"Not yet. I'll visit him again in a week or so. I received an email from a detachment in Yorkshire, they suspect they've got a serial killer but they can't be sure."

"Why not?"

"They think he's dumping in the Bolton Strid."

"Oh wow!"

"Mm. Interested?"

"Of course. So, you'll go up to Yorkshire, solve the case, then carry on up to Jura to visit Mycroft?"

"You could come with me."

"What about Rosie?"

"Don't carry her near the Strid, obviously."

"I'm to push a pram to a crime scene, am I?"

"You could wear her on your chest in a pack but that might interfere if you need to kneel down."

_Mental images: John with baby on chest in sunny yellow pack with pink and orange flowers, kneeling over water-bloated corpse with stern business face. John pushing hooded pram through wooded path and under yellow police tape. Pram with 'Authorised Consultant' tag pinned to it._

Smile. Laughter. His. Own. 

Kiss baby, pass back to John, stand. Open violin case, tune violin.

_Feelings: Relief, decompression, relaxation, warmth, affection, gratitude_

Cases. Experiments. 221B Baker Street. John Watson. 

_Stability. Strength._

_Home._

_We have a long way to go (a lot of trust to rebuild.)_

Think of Mycroft in silence. Think of Eurus. Think of journey ahead.

Set bow to strings. Play.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes home.

"Welcome back, sir."

"Thank you. It's good to be back," Mycroft smiled.

"I've prepared a file with the current conditions for you."

"Yes, he's sighting on North Korea now, as if that situation wasn't volatile enough as it is."

"It's even worse, sir," his PA flashed a quick grin, "He wants a ride in the Queen's carriage!"

"Oh my god," Mycroft covered his face with his hands, "I take it back, coming here was a mistake, I'm not ready for this, leaving now bye." He looked up at his PA again, "Do we have any **good** news?"

"No, sir."

"Capital," he sighed.

"A meeting is expected to be called within the next twenty-four hours. Shall I cancel your appointment with Doctor Taylor, sir?"

Mycroft shook his head firmly, "You shall do no such thing. Those appointments are a priority second only to my little brother."

"Very good, sir," his PA nodded.

And Sherlock had indeed become an even higher priority. The relationship had changed between the two brothers. Sherlock had lost much of his resentful brattiness and Mycroft admitted to himself that he had taken a sharp kick in the humility. He'd always been there for Sherlock but the certainty that Sherlock was there for him had strengthened them both. He became aware that his PA had spoken again, "Sorry, what was that?"

"Your painting has returned from the framers, where would you like for it to hang?"

"In place of that rather tepid print," Mycroft said, "I've never really liked it."

"Very good, sir," his PA said again. She helped him to take down the print then unwrapped the paper from the framed picture. It was a small painting of seaweed, pushed up onto the rocks, above the white water line. The framer had chosen mats and a frame that complimented the murky colours in the painting and the whole effect, viewed from his desk, looked far better than he had anticipated.

And it would serve as a reminder. 

Outside, it was partly cloudy, sunlight dappling the streets of London. He went to the window and looked out. There was always a plein air painter or few, sometimes clustered together, painting the Houses of Parliament. It was a beautiful crisp day and the play of light and shadow were ideal. Then, telling his PA to confirm his lunch date, he took his pochade kit out of a drawer and went out to join them. 

* * * *

"How's that?"

"Yes, that's better."

"Alright then. What's happening?

"I've got... issues. My Da... I'm a father now. I've got a baby daughter and I... My... the man I.... my best friend... he's afraid of me now, I can't... I can't go on like this."

"And you can't go on like this, and when you can't go on like this, that's can't go on like.... what?"

He stared for a long time at the sketch on the floor, the RAMC crest inside of a bull's skull wearing headphones. "Like a raging bull," he said finally, "I'm just tearing around lashing out but all I'm doing is hurting everyone around me. I'm just hurting myself."

"And you can't go on like this, and raging bull, and you're tearing around lashing out but all you're doing is hurting everyone around you and hurting yourself... And when raging bull, what would you like to have happen?"

He stared for a long, long time at the sketch on the floor, at the RAMC crest inside the bull's skull, but seeing Greg's face incredulous and angry. _"He had to go to those extremes just to try to talk to you."_

The bull's skull stared at him. 

Wearing headphones. 

"I need to listen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially very hesitant to post this story but I've been pleasantly surprised by all the positive responses. Thank you! 
> 
> For those curious, the techniques described here include [Clean Language](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clean_Language), [EMDR](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eye_movement_desensitization_and_reprocessing), and [EFT](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emotional_Freedom_Techniques). All three have been dismissed as 'snake oil' at one time or another (though EMDR is now being recommended for treatment of PTSD in soldiers), and yet people who have no success with traditional therapies such as talk therapy and [CBT](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_behavioral_therapy), may find success with one of the three or in combination. I have experienced all three and use Clean Language myself in my life coaching practice. EFT feels ridiculous and I do hold private opinions about its supposed mechanism, but it's the only thing that can penetrate my ruminative thought loops when I'm melting down long enough to apply calming techniques. That's really why I decided to put this story out there, to bring awareness that there are alternatives when neurotypical therapies aren't helping.
> 
> Thank you again for enjoying the story.


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